The Ios treadmill

The old attraction of travelling is the escape of routine and the avoidance of the dreaded treadmill of a deskjob, the dreadmill. When you are on the road for long enough, however, and you find yourself settling in a new place a new routine is inevitable. The very thing we fled from intitially. The contradiction of long term travel even manages to undermine an old travelling adage. "The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun." With that said, I have a definite routine here in Greece. This is my treadmill.

I have the luxury of waking up between 2pm and 3pm because I have nowhere to be in the day. After a lazy rousing, myself and my roommate Janner, a dreadlocked chatter-box Australian make our way to the beach over the hill. The beach is a standard meat market and most days are spent dipping in the sea and competing in spontaneous hand stand competitions in which there are three categories of endurance, stability and
freestyle. The beach is nearly a kilometre long of white sand and warm torquoise water protected be points on either side that make up the bay. It is the same beach that Cat Stevens used to give free concerts on for the hippies that frequented Ios in the sixties and seventies. A frisbee throw from the tip of the sea and across the tine street is the Far Out Hotel and pool where they have a daily DJ, cocktail specials, thee pools, a supertube, a restaurant and a big screen. This is where the excitement is and where most people spend the day lounging around the pool or if the occasion merits it, partying. There is a large contingent of staff on the island and everyone knows and is friends with everyone. It is easy because everyone is on the same wave as everyone else and here for the same reasons. Most of the staff are your stock standard Australians with some Irish, Kiwis and Canadians making up the numbers with a token South African to spice it up. We mingle and catch up on the stories from last night and get to meet the tourists and backpackers on the island to tempt them to come to our bars. Once the sun has scorched us sufficiently and our appetites peeked we head home in gangs, laying plans for the night and oaths of which bars to dance on and the extent of your partying intentions. Janner and I generally get home at 7pm or so, make something to eat and have a siesta after our strenuous day's activities. By nine our housemates will have returned from their day jobs on the beach as watersports guys and we catch up with some relaxed drinks on our balcony. There are eight of us in the house and all are cool and tuned in bar the Romanian invalid who is yet to look at me in the eyes in five weeks and who most consider to be genuinely retarded. Some nights we go for a BBQ at other staff houses on their balconies and take in the sunset but most we spend on our own with a few guests before we head out later. Our landlady is our Greek grandmother who lives directly under us and has no qualms exploring the house at her will and sneaking into our rooms. She speaks no English so hand gestures and grunts are all we have but she is sweet and washes our sheets once a week for us. I start work at midnight for a small bar off the main square of Ios and either mildly harass the passersby or go inside and liven up the dancefloor. Myself and two girls are basically rent a crowd so the bar looks full. We get free drinks and very few instructions other than to just be there. Technically the girls are floorwhores and I am a doorwhore. Those are just names. We close at 4am or so and we then meet up with other friends and go to the bars that will stay open till 8am causing havoc and joining in on the revelry. The best place in town is at the bakery after everything is closed where their pies are killer and they sell Bacardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. Strawpedos are expected and the bakery is the accepted rendezvous point for all the staff still out and about and a way to end off another day in paradise.

The only break in routine is the weekly and infamous 'Strawpedo Run'. On Mondays we meet at 2pm in the square and then make our way to the beach stopping at each of eleven mini-markets on the way to down a Bacardi Breezer with the aid a straw and hence the name. There is a flag and familiar and entertaining speeches at every stop with practiced traditions of opening the run such as getting a three person high tower and the top person does a strawpedo while holding a flag. Last Monday there were seventy of us and we must of made quite a spectacle as the strawpedos take their effect once we make it to the beach and many people end up having a little puke before the finish generally bright red and encouraged to be deposited in someone else's pocket, that is the common practice. That in general is my dreadmill spiced with kayak trips, cliff jumping, snorkelling and dancing competitions. If ever I was going to not complain about doing the same thing day in and day out this could be it. Depite that, however, I have been here 6 weeks now and that incessant itch in my feet is flaring up again but not just yet because July is the busiest month fattened up with St Paddys day in July, Independence day, Canada day, wet t-shirt competitions and huge influx of Scandinavians. Will let you know how it all plays out.

Ciao Venice

I could easily tell you about how my last six weeks in Venice was spent cruising around the hostel, keeping the guests happy (or not, depending on the type of guest they were), working on a very casual and very messy pub crawl (a shot on every bridge in venice - there are alot of bridges), and the random comings-and-goings of the entertaining guests but there is something much more interesting to speak about - my workmate Ateek. Ahhhhhhh, Ateek. Ahhhhteek, Where do I start? Well, he certainly is very interesting. Some fun facts about Ateek.

- He comes from Afghanistan
- In 1997, when he was 12, the war broke out in Afghanistan. Alot of money could be made during the war though selling guns. In order to exploit this, Ateek and his friends would hide in the streets and alleys and steal the guns off dead soldiers.
- One day, Ateek found a dead soldier with a big gun. He told us, "It was so beeeg, I could barely carry it". It was worth about $250 which, as you can imagine, was a very big sum then, with it you could buy 3 donkeys, 12 chickens and wind-up radio. As he was stealing away with it he spotted a taliban soldier, who also spotted him, and ran into an abandoned building. The taliban followed him inside and asked little Ateek for the big gun. Ateek knew then as he does now that the only rule in war is kill or be killed. He also knew that if he gave him a gun the soldier would kill him. Ateek started to give the taliban the gun. As the taliban went to take it Ateek squeezed the trigger and didn't stop until a round of 70 or so bullets were wasted as well as the taliban soldier who Ateek had riddled with bullets. He was 12.
- This incident led to him fearing for his life and so he walked to Iran.
- Once in Iran, a family found him walking in the street and took him in.
- He stayed there until he was twenty at which point he moved to Athens.
- In Athens Ateek had alot of fun and the best three monthhs of his life. He made alot of money smuggling refugees around Europe in trucks with a few melons in them.
- After one successful heist him and his partner made 40 000 Euros by refusing to pay the driver. They blew all of it in one week partying like rockstars in a fancy hotel.
- Four years ago he came to Venice and has been there ever since.
- A month before I left he attacked a mutual friend of ours with a kitchen knife in the hostel "Because he disrespect me". It was about a girl. My friend fled down the stairs with a broom as defence.
- He says things like "Why you make me sad, you want to fight with me?"
- This is the person I ran the hostel with, just the two of us.

While he seems harmless enough with his off-beat humour, mesmerizing card tricks and intuitive palm reading there certainly is something you can't trust about him. It could just be his background and the fact that someone who kills a man when he is 12 is destined to have an obscure respect for human life. Apparently he threw a piece of metal at the guy who replaced me recently. Ahhhhh Ateek, how we used to rock that hostel. Checking the guests in, 'cleaning', cooking dinner, making Sangria and taking out the guests. Here are some comments from hostelworld.com of our hostel while the two of us worked there.


Great atmosphere. Unpretentious. An awesome location to meet new people. Loved the free breakfast and the 3 euro suppers. The only issue is cleanliness.

Stay at the Fish if you like to party and meet other travellers. The nightly pub crawl is wild. We had a great weekend - thanks Matt, Kagan and Ahteek for the fun times!

The kitchen was disgusting and the entire hostel could use a good clean. The staff were very unprofessional, when we arrived we had no idea who worked there and who didn't, it seemed they were there to party instead of run a hostel. It was very unorganized, no one was there for us to check out,and so we were unable to get a deposit back. There were a lot of extra fees involved as well that was not presented on the website, such as linen, towels, dinner, and for the employees to take you out

Possibly the most disgusting hostel I have ever been to. I would not recommend it to anyone, ever. The place smelled, was dirty, and our room was never cleaned after the previous guests left. Mattresses were stained and so were linens/blankets. Absolutely horrible.

If you are an asian guy,this hostel wouldn't be good for you and the 1 star hotel like Rossi hotel would be good for you because you take a short time walking from station to hotel and this is good and clean.

This hostel, rather messy, is more for the guys who are running it as it would be for theirs guests. Breakfast is only available after they get up and that is after 9 pm, so having left earlier, I have not seen my breakfast in the 3 days. I arrived the frist day around 9 am, coming directly from the airport, and the guy "in duty", who I waked up by my ringing, was so annoyed about that, that he did not explain anything about where is what in the hostel and how is breakfast organized.

My favorite hostel in Europe!!! I came just in time for dinner...which is 3 euro...and the guy made us so much foooood it was awsome and delicious! we played drinking games and then the two guys working there took us out to the bar...i was told venice didnt have a nightlife but with all the people at the hostel it was so much fun! the place is great, an awsome way to meet people, great location and amazing staff..recomend it to anyone going to venice! loved it! thank u guys!

The worst hostel I've ever stayed in. The only positive was the okay location. The entire place was filthy. There were bedbugs. The kitchen was filled with mold, old dishes, rotting food... to say that place is livable is an exaggeration. DO NOT STAY THERE.

This is the worst hostel I have stayed in. The staff are extremely unprofessional but that isn't even the half of this hostel\'s problems. It is FILTHY. Absolutely disgusting. Everything looks as if it hasn't been cleaned in years.


Yeah so basically it was what the guests made of it. The comment about the asian guy is priceless. So that was Venice, and now I have been in Greece for four weeks. There is loads to tell, but that will have to wait as its time for a dip oi the pool.

PS I am growing inceasingly distraught about being away for the World Cup with each new day. Everyone asks me what I am doing here andI tell them I don't know. Soak it all up and report the details to me when we get the chance. And here is Ateek.

Queen's Day - I love you Amsterdam!

If you were ever going to spend 66 hours in Amsterdam. This would be it. Queens Day is a spectacle of mammoth proportions. This from the web;

"Queen's Day (in Dutch: Koninginnedag) in Amsterdam is a unique night and day carnival-like event on 30th of April each year and during the night before – so called Queen's Night (in Dutch: Koninginnenacht). What is special about the Queen's Day, as well as having elements of the huge party across the whole city, it is combined with the market in the streets of the whole city (in Dutch: Vrijmarkt). Queen's Day in Amsterdam attracts each year ca 700 thousands visitors, which makes the city crowded beyond any acceptable norms. Despite overcrowding, the atmosphere on Queen's Day is traditionally relaxed and joyful. Usually mild, not too hot weather makes the Queen's Day the day to be in Amsterdam. To feel the atmosphere on the day please, watch the Queen's Day video .

Queen's Day is also a typical occasion for the world-famous Orange Craze. On this day most of the people wear orange clothing and creative orange accessories. The colour orange is a ubiquitous sight, referring to the name of our royal family, the House of Orange. Everywhere in the city you'll see orange banners, orange colored foods and drinks."



Every street, every square, every canal and every boat is jam-packed with people all wearing orange, all partying and dancing along to the ubiqiutous music pumping through the beer and smoke. I was there last year but this year promised to be even more special. At the last minute, myself and Keg (a friend working in the hostel in Venice with me but originally from Miami) found a pretty cheap ticket to an airport an hour from Brussels. This meant we would have to travel for 12 hours each way, but were confident that was a very small endurance. The juice would definately be worth the squeeze.

Classically, our journey was a fiasco, we woke up an hour late sprinted for our bus, and just made our plane after paying a huge fee to print our boarding passes at the airport (thank you Ryan Air). We did, however, have hours worth of entertainment ridiculing Keg's packing - for three days he decided to bring four pairs of pants,one pair of shorts, 2 shirts and no underwear or socks all in a plastic shopping bag. Dammit Keg!

One of the best times Ive ever had was when I worked on the pub crawl in Amsterdam last year. The Ultimate Party pub crawl attracts close to 2000 revelers every week in summer. Our job was to promote the pub crawl in the day, which entailed cruising around with friends chatting to tourists and persuading them to come party with you, exploring the red light district and then meeting up with the crew at our regular bar for something to eat and drink before the night began. The night was a dream. We would go around pouring vodka shots into the people's mouths, handing out t-shirts, putting on wristbands and all that jazz. Our duties for the night were to dance, drink and socialise and show everyone where the bars and clubs were. We got paid for this. It was a freaky dream.
Our first two nights and days in Amsterdam were spent catching up with the Pub Crawl crew and partying with them. Met up with all the old friends from across the globe and the new additions to the staff. Travelling relatively alone can be tiresome and lonesome at times so it was an awesome two days catching up with all the boys leading up to the main event of Queen's Day.

We woke up scatter-brained and pumped up for the day but we took an age to get into town. On the walk in we found an orange cowboy hat with holes in the peak to put six beer glasses. SOLD! As soon as we had poured the beer we had into the cups we decided to catch a packed tram into town. This proved to be a semi-mistake. Not far into the tram ride I got a tap on the shoulder from a grumpy dwarf lady with grey brown hair and a scowl telling me my beer was all over her little angel. Her little angel, equally grumpy and equally unpleasant to look at seemed completely dry. My drop of beer on her top was difficult to detect. She moaned and hollered and I unenthusiastically apologised. Chill out bitch its Queens Day. A friend with us from back home, Natti-Ice, giggled uncontrollably for the rest of the ride. We weren't in the right mindset to deal with vibe-killing mongrels.

The Pub Crawl boss has a little bachelor pad on Leidsestraat, the main walking street, and had a shindig there in the day with a DJ deck, a view of the throbbing crowds and unlimited beer. We partied there, writing on each others shirts and faces, taking turns DJing and getting into the beer and soon set off for our mission around the festival. En route we spotted two small sisters seling megaphones and bubbleguns. In a moment of weakness I bought the bubblegun only to find out I was duped because it still needed batteries. This travesty was soon overlooked as we discovered our intended destination. In front of the Massive Rijks Museum across the canal and under some trees there was a stage and a DJ playing some crowd-pleasing beats. We were settling in to this place spreading the love and giving out free high-fives when Cat, a livewire Scottish girl, went to give a stranger a high-five celebrating the occasion and the glorious day and he promptly punched her in the face. This asshole was laughing about it when our group of guys was trying to get at him. Nicky, an explosive Irishman who I shared a room with last year, was the most riled up and in his steaming he knocked a girl a few times and so she spat in his face, he then spat in her face. Clearly the vibe here was wrong, we left soon after that.

The main attraction of the day was Tiesto in Museumplein. Tiesto has been voted the best DJ in the world three years in a row, he is considered a pioneer and revolutionised the the DJing scene. In 2008 he became the first DJ to perform at the O2 arena in London as part of his In Search of Sunrise 7 summer tour. (By the way, In Search of Sunrise 8 is in Cape Town this year in 2 weeks on the 15th of May). So we headed to Museumplein to get a taste of the sensation. There were 150 000 people revved up and waiting for Tiesto. He arrived in a Limo and the big screen cameras followed him from the car through backstage onto the stage as the crowd went mad. He started playing as the sun was going down and finished when it was dark. Tiesto didn't disappoint and we spent alot of time on each other's shoulders taking in the crowd and the vibe. He played for only an hour and it went quickly but it was an electric experience. The rest of the night was spent bar-hopping and riding the wave of the day. It was a truly awesome three nights and days and if you are ever in Europe at this time of year, it is a must. Thank you Amsterdam!

The Gap Decade Theory - Recovering from my education

The Gap Decade Movement (GDM) is the notion, viral wave, underground phenomena, future dynamo and proposed practice of taking ten years out of one's life to decide what one would like to do with the rest of it. Ten years of personal freedom to explore all passions, all avenues of interest, the feint tickles at the underbelly of our desires, and especially the ludicrous, destined-to-fail personal projects. An expidition into possibility. It is not a strict rule of 3652.5 days but rather an extended period in which there is no rush nor pressure to 'become something' or make a success of one's self. It is a time to merely be, to appreciate the here and now, breathe it all in and savour the moment. A time to question, explore, experiment, experience, walk, run, dance, play, eat, love, learn, dare, taste, touch, smell, listen, argue, speak, write, read, draw, provoke, emote, scream, sin, repent, cry, kneel, pray, bow, rise, stand, look, laugh, cajole, create, confront, confound, walk back, walk forward, circle, hide, and seek.


Fresh graduates are naturally attracted to a decade of personal freedom to recover from their education, discover fresh paths, indulge in whims and go wherever the wind blows. Most importantly, however, it is about finding our passions and how that can change everything.



The world is shit
The GDM expresses a severe critique of modern society, blind conformity, the values,
and the systems of today's world and the general acceptance of our lives. This from their official website;

"We are all too accepting. We accept that university follows high school and that a career follows studying. We accept that money equals success and that we don't really have a choice in the matter. We accept that it is very important to 'become someone' and that the way to do this is through business. We, as the GDM, are critically aware of the inherent emptiness in the traditional notion of success."

The emphasis is on consumption and production, business and money, more business and more money. But why? As Jiddu Krishnamurti, an Indian philosopher, once said, "It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society."



So if not business then what??
The GDM is not merely a dismissal of the world's current system but simultaneously champions an alternative approach to life focused on creativity, community, possibility and exploration. Although the GDM can easily be dismissed as a hippie brain-child, it is an attractive and surprisingly sensible notion. It is not a straight forward anti-conformity plea but rather a re-assessment of human potential plea. The GDM are passionate supporters of the belief that "Remarkable, life-enhancing things can happen when we take time out of our routines, rethink our paths, and revisit the passions we left behind (or never pursued at all) for whatever reason. We can take ourselves in fresh directions at nearly any point in our lives".

This gap decade, the GDM explains, is ideally used as a period of personal growth and development, a lengthy rite of passage for the experiencer to discover what they want from life and what they can offer.


My Thoughts
I read alot. I like to read all kinds of things mostly for simple joy and voyeurism and that one can learn amazing things from books. I read books that are thoughtful, insightful and provoking. This is what I have learnt from books;

- People get sucked into careers and end up trading in their dreams for bigger paychecks without even realising what they are doing. This is referred to as 'feeding the Career Monster'.

- Some people are lucky enough to snap out of this trap, escape the haunting of unrealised dreams and refresh their lives. Most aren't.

- If you advance confidently in the direction of your dreams, you will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. You will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within you.

- True happiness is not found in external advantages such as material luxury, political power, or good health. True happiness lies in not being dependent on such fleeting things.


With that in mind, a time of personal exploration does not seem so ridiculous. In fact it seems like a healthy alternative to feeding the Career Monster and establishing a sense of security, bec ause as I have also learnt from living and books, 'nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future'.


Of course, it can be argued, that I am merely avoiding the real world and clutching at plausible excuses for doing so. I am avoiding growing up. I am clinging to my youth. And why not? Why not cling to all the laughter and desire and dancing and uncomplicated happiness. Why seek out commitment and security, mind-numbing, spirit-trampling careers that offer most people nothing but the promise of a nest egg and some safety.

I see the Gap Decade as a nice little reward following the 16 years dedicated towards my formal education. After so sensibly and diligently following the path of education it only made sense to make this decision. A personal indulgence of complete freedom for ten years. No commitments, no responsibilty but to myself. It could easily be dismissed as a slacker's dream, because it is. But there is nothing slacking about it. I am making the most of my time. I am going to use this little gift to see the world. I am going to search for paradise. It is true what they say; the world is wilder in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. Another quote, this one from Paul Fussel;

"Before the development of tourism, travel was conceived to be like study, and its fruits were considered to be the adornment of the mind and the formation of judgement. The traveler was a student of what he saught."

The question is, what are you going to do with your gap decade? Your time before life gets too claustrophobic and demanding, before the thought of marriage and mortgages, before you get old. Are you going to burn up the rest of your youth, gaining experience in a field so you can one day retire a little early and travel to far away places to admire and wish you were younger so that you could do that hike or go to that party? Are you going to waste away your youth indoors at a desk or step outside and take a ride? All glory comes from daring to begin.

I can't seem to attach the video I want, but please go onto youtube and search for "Music and life - Alan Watts". It sums this all up perfectly. Cheers

Flooding in St. Mark's Square

As with most things, the vibe and mood of a hostel has a certain ebb and flow to it. At some stages the hostel can be full of Asians with a stream of absurd requests and fickle complaints as well as a constant aroma of burning noodles. At other times the hostel will brim with fun-loving travellers united in the single goal of experiencing a city and travelling at its glorious best. A month ago the hostel was going through a purple patch and experiencing the latter. There were two Aussie guys who were outrageously popular,a ditzy illustrator from Cornwall, a travel agent from Vancouver, three English teachers from Ireland living in Berlin and small clumps of like-minded Americans studying abroad who made up the nucleus of the hostel. After a series of nights out in the bars we decided to experience a spectacle unique to Venice first hand, the Acqua Alta. This from the ever-reliable Wikipedia;

Acqua Alta (high water in Italian) is the term used in Veneto for the exceptional tide peaks that occur periodically in the northern Adriatic Sea. The phenomenon occurs mainly between autumn and spring, when the astronomical tides are reinforced by the prevailing seasonal winds which hamper the usual reflux. To allow pedestrian circulation during floods, the city installs a network of gangways (wide wood planks on iron supports) reproducing the main urban paths.

Yeah, so basically at certain times like in winter and at a full moon, Venice floods. Not all of it but only certain areas that are closer to the water or at a lower level. The high tide was scheduled for 11:46pm so after dinner we got everyone together and set off to meet up with the other hostel. We arrived at the other hostel to find them doing flaming Sambuca shots. We joined in and then got prepared by handing out plastic bags for the guests to use to cover their feet. Our total of 7 bags was good for 3 and a half people, so everyone decided to just man up and go bare foot. Everyone besides me and Beard, the other hostel worker, who had good old Wellingtons. The water was freezing so I wasn't willing to go barefoot. Beard, another friend from the Amsterdam pub crawl, decided to lead us on his special route.
His special route ignored all pedestrian signs and inspired by the flaming Sambuca's got us impressively lost. Once we realised we were going in the opposite of the desired direction, the group took over and we reached our destination St. Mark's square at the perfect time.

St. Mark's square is surrounded by the St. Mark's Basilica and Doge's Palace on one side and other official buildings make up the piazza. At day it seethes with tourists but at night it is empty and was on this occassion apart from the knee deep flash lagoon taking up all of it.

We shrieked and ran and jumped and wallowed around in it and then found some chairs and tables from a closed restaurant on the square and took them to the middle of this shimmering lake to chill out and drink and smoke and soak up this semi-phenomona. We spent a few hours there chatting about how cool we were but it was cut short when a guy from Texas drank too much whisky from a 2l Coke bottle and puked in the water we were standing in. We fled from the scene, the floating puke and the policemen calling us to put the tables and chairs back where they belong.

First year of freedom

I arrived in Europe one year ago today. I landed with a limited 182 euros, following a run-away roadtrip in the states, and the name of a hostel. A week later and I was down to 20 euros and still just the name of the hostel. It worked out, I didn't become a bum, well not in the traditional sense, and I got a job at the hostel. From there it was pretty plain sailing from a survival point, although Barcelona was a bit of a stretch and as was the beginning of winter on the streets of Amsterdam. With one year down, any development is difficult to identify. I am a few countries away in Italy now but still working in a hostel. No real progress there. I have no huge savings to boast of, and little memorabilia. But there have been positives. For example I;

1. Perfected the Captain Planet dance medley.
2. Purchased shoes off the feet of a guy on the street.
3. Didn't die.
4. Developed an incredibly believable arm-wrestling background for myself.
5. Picked up an array of colourful sunglasses.

A very satisfying year. Achieving more than that would be overly ambitious. I did manage to have one goal, which was to pay little notice to reason and logic and special attention to the feint itches and tickles of my slightest whims and desires.

The utter freedom led me to choosing exactly what I wanted and that has been exhilirating, inspiring and even challenging.The books resonated with me, the people inspired me and the experiences encouraged me. Here's to another one.

Venice is a fish

With an awkward gap of a few months between the Winter season in Austria and Summer season in Greece, I was lost as how to pass the time. I considered another return to Amsterdam, or even the dreaded London to see friends, but at the last moment a friend from Miami pulled through and got me a job in a hostel in Venice. This would provide me with an opportunity to achieve a long-held dream. For years I have wanted to be a gondolier in Venice. Seriously. I just thought it would be cool. I was under the false belief that my grandmother came from Venice and that maybe I had a bit of gondolier blood in me. I found out when I was about eighteen that my grandmother's family came from Sicily, the other side of the country. This shattered my world. Nevertheless, I have always felt an attachment to Venice. It could have something to do with one of Sean Connery's Bond movies, when in the final scene Bond floats away with his girl on his side and the bad guy defeated. That also just seemed cool. So I came to find out just how cool it is.

The Hostel

Working in a hostel is practically the only way I could come to live here. Finding accommodation and a job in a traditional manner would prove impossible, especially considering the ludicrous prices for rent in Venice. It also happens to be a nice little arrangement, the hostel provides free board, food, drinks and daily friends, all in a 400 year old palace on the Grand Canal. The hostel is fairly central and a short walk to St. Marco's square. It is in a large building, and was in fact a palace that was built for a leading Venetian family in the 15th century. The hostel takes up all of the second floor. Busks feature along the welcoming staircase and the entrance has magnificently high ceilings which are adorned with sculptures of chubby babies with wings. The hostel can take about forty people but the occupancy floats around the thirty mark. My job has is three fold, I organise the beds, handle the check-ins and setup the meals. Organising the beds is a saga in its own right. The hostel only has a license for five beds per room, but have as many as fourteen guests in each room. The police often have routine checks of all tourism enterprises and will show up demanding to be allowed in to make an inspection. Due to this, a large part of my working day is spent taking down and hiding beds and putting them back up at 5 o'clock, once the police have called it a day. On Sundays I don't have to do it, because the police don't work on Sundays, which is a nice change. (It is through this aspect of my job that I was introduced to the Italian concept of fregatura which is indispensible for anyone living in Italy. A fregatura is doing something in a way which is not exactly legal, not exactly honest, but just this side of outrageously bad. It is a way of life in Italy.)

The Check-ins have become a passion of mine, or at least a large aspect of my entertainment. At first I explained everything in a sensible and straightforward way, which quickly got boring. It then evolved into great rambling performances that could freak out the guest, and question their decision to stay there or I could be down right rude if the guest gets in anytime before 10am. Generally I have perfected my routine answering the questions before they are answered, and satisfying any nerves or qualms, especially after explaining why their bed will only be ready at five. I tell them the truth. Some people try guess where I am from and most fail horribly. There are cheaper rates for females which half explains why 90 percent of the guests are females. We are currently coming to the end of Europe's spring break and many of our guests in the last few weeks have been obnoxious Americans studying in Europe, although not all are obnoxious and some are even agreeable. The guests from Canada, Mexico, Britain, Ireland, Norway, Australia and Brazil (basically everywhere except America) have been awesome and a highlight of the job.



Setting up breakfast is a straightforward deal but dinner is the day's great event.
Every night we prepare a 3 Euro dinner for the guests. It is generally a variety of pasta but lasagne, gnocchi and pizza make appearances too. The gnocchi and pizza are made from scratch and are half day affairs. My bosses take great pride in their dinners and the guests realise that. Initially the guests will endure awkward and plodding conversations regarding day trips and travel plans. But after the 'Surprise Sangria' has been unveiled, drinking games kick off, similarities are recognised, defences dropped and discarded and any awkwardness quickly vanishes. After dinner, the guests are louder and happier and the drinking games are picked up at one end of the table while the other side chats freely. After an hour or so we head to the bars.



My Bosses


There are four of them. Four thirty-something friends who own four hostels; one in Milan, one in Florence and two in Venice. Diana and Alberto are brother and sister, Matteo and Andrea are friends with Alberto. They bounce around from hostel to hostel spending a week here and a week there. It can happen that three of them meet up for a few days just for a party it seems. As I mentioned, they are behind the dinners and the kitchen is their playground. As Diana has explained to me, "The kitchen is where we have our funny". They pump the music, which features 70's disco, Italian favourites and Jamiroquai. They smoke cigarettes, drink wine, sing and dance all while milling around and contributing to the cooking. Andrea or Alberto will over see it and keep focused on the job while the others perform. More than anything though, they argue vehemently. It is classic, they throw their arms around in wild gesture and are emphatic with every point. Every conversation is a raging argument, a constant ranting, and I was convinced that only someone who is furiously angry will shriek that loudly. I was wrong. After every argument they burst out laughing and spin around for another cigarette to light or glass to full or song to pick or pot to stir. The kitchen is one big celebration. Friends come over and join the festivities and their riot intimidatingly looms over the hostel guests. Their party is much more raucous than the collection of travelling strangers.


Venice



I spend the time I have free in the afternoons joining guests on random explorations, trips to nearby islands, and quests to different areas of Venice. We always get lost. We wonder down the smaller alleys, investigate the curious squares and trust our instincts. My personal mission for the moment is to get gelato everyday. There are free exhibitions and churches to check out too, I do if there is nothing else going on. There are ferries to sneak onto for free trips along the grand canal. There is much on offer but best is just to wonder. I head back to the hostel at fivish to put the beds back up.


Venice Nightlife

Venetian nightlife is pretty limited. There are some clubs on the mainland but on Venice itself, there are few places that play music or where one can dance. There are a few plazas with small bars surrounding them that spill crowds onto the plazas. The most popular one is Campo Santa Margarita which is popular amongst the students. The bars are tiny and just big enough for us to squeeze in, order a drink, and squeeze out. The most popular drink is a Spritz, the 'Venetian cocktail', which is pink and fruity and is made with either Aperol or Campari, and is dirt cheap. If you're lucky you will get an olive on a stick with it or generally a slice of blood orange. I tell the guests they have to get this signature drink and ordering is made easy for the large group. Standing outside we are bombarded by rose sellers from Bangladesh. The bars play no music and close early. Not so vibrant. Some nights we seek out random bars to prolong the night or try our hand at the unpredictable wharehouse club, Zona Bandita which operates with what sounds like one blown speaker, but generally the afterparty heads back to the hostel, where we play music and finish off the sangria and our night.




End Note: I have recently moved to the other hostel in Venice, where myself and an Afghanistani guy called Ateek run the show. It is dingier and dodgier and we can do what we like. It is not a palace.

Flashback #2 Trent's Head

It was a joyous occasion. We were happy and loud and laughing and spitting in the face of the night. Well, a bottle of Jagermeister will do that to you. It was my third night in Austria and we were off on a random mission to some bar in the mountains. There were six of us. Myself, Flo (an Austrian friend from the pub crawl in Amsterdam), Martina and Rosa (two local girls) and Pixie and Trent. The idea was to hike up the hill at night to some relatively close bar, have some drinks and then the grand finale would be to sled down the hill on a skibop. We had some practice drinks at home, and had some practice skibops at the base of the hill. Spirits were high and it took a brisk ten minutes for us to reach our destination.

It was exactly what you picture an Austrian bar in the alps to be. A trickle of smoke rising from the log cabin, no doubt a gulaschsoup or gluwein on the broth. Discarded skis and sleds framed the entrance as we traipsed in and the jovial warmth slapped us in the face. Benches and tables made up the room and despite being relatively full we managed to find a vacant table. A round of beers and Jagermeisters was ordered as reward for our mild exertion. As we settled in, I noticed what was happening around us. There were two men dressed in full mountain regalia, one playing an accordion, the other a guitar, parading around performing apparently popular Austrian folk songs. The people in their seats swayed and sang with the songs in utter revelry and the three Austrians amongst us too joined in the chorus. The musicians were in their element, prancing on and off the tables and sang each song with more gusto than the last. After a few more rounds it was go time and we headed out to get on our skibops. In essence, a ski bop is a dildo glued upright onto a plastic plate, ergo the name penis bopping that Martina gleefully referred to it as. In our state we were barely finding our feet to prepare ourselves for flight. It was planned to be a no holds barred dog fight to the end. Organization was shocking and as the first one hurtled down we all threw ourselves onto our penis bops and down the piste. Squeezing the penis, squealing, and having no real idea how to do what I was trying to do, I managed to make it to the bottom unscathed. We all did. In quick succession. Except Trent. He eventually showed up, we glanced at him, took no real notice and continued our shrieking. Trent got up, trotted over and casually mentioned that he had hit his head. That is when we saw it. The blood. It was thick and dark red, almost like gulasch soup. In our excitement we did a horrible job of not freaking out.

“Oh my fuck, Oh my fuck, Oh my fuck. OK Trent you’ll be fine”.

“What?”

“No don’t worry, you’re not gonna die…. Is he?”

“What?”

“No its a mere flesh wound. You’ve just been drinking so that’s why it is thick and covering your entire head and neck and back and won’t stop bleeding… let’s go to the hospital.”

“Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”

What we figured out, once Pixie confessed, was that Trent fell off his ski and Pixie following close behind hit Trent in the head with his sled and carried on going because ‘he thought it was me’.

We arrived at the hospital, Trent shaky, the girls worried and the guys ecstatic at the outing and some gore. Trent was taken into the operating room immediately and our unruly gang was left in the waiting room. We busied ourselves doing wheelies on the wheelchairs and expressing our horror/delight at how much blood Trent had lost. His scarf and jacket were soaked with it.

Trent would later report that we were not the only ones who freaked out. While we were celebrating in the waiting room, he was lying on the metal operating table, and under the care of the night nurses all he could make out between the two of them was “Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse”. They were not doing anything because the injury was so severe that they were waiting for a senior doctor. They kept on looking at and poking his head, repeating “Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse”. His bleeding had not stopped and lying on his chest, face sideways, the blood was slowly rising, eventually forcing one eye closed and nearing his nostrils. It was about that time that he became very cold , and recognizing the symptoms of shock, got a little worried and asked the doctors for a blanket. The senior doctor arrived, the bleeding slowed, the wound sutured, head bandaged and a dishwasher’s life saved. He eventually came out of the operating room to see us and get ready to go to bed.

We were regailing each other with drinking injury stories, when Trent appeared.




He entered through the side door and in an instant I took in the picture. He was dressed in a hospital gown, head heroically bandaged around his ears, hobbling in, hanging onto a drip, looking very sorry for himself, and rightfully so. The sight of him appearing through the door threw ourselves onto the floor in hysterics, pounding the floor with our fists at the this. The noise we were making was beyond laughing, it was an impossible gasping for air, giggling and coughing and shrieking. We just could not believe Trent’s get up. It was too good to be true. Too classic. Too awesome. Rosa had earlier seemed irritated with how terrible friends we were. We explained to her, “Hey he’s not dead, so it’s all good”. She didn’t agree.

Trent spent the night high on morphine and dined out on a slice of bread and jam in the morning. We went out and had a few more drinks, boasting of our adventure and Trent’s misfortune. He survived, with this anecdote and a cool scar for the chicks to dig.

The green blur that was St. Paddy's Day in Dublin

Nothing has ever quite tingled my drinking senses as much as the notion of spending St. Patrick's day in Dublin. So when the chance arose at the end of the ski season in Austria I pounced on it as swiftly as a drunk Irishman on a free drink. I merrily pictured myself painted green, with leprechauns frolicking at my feet while Irish lass's would continually fill my Jameson in my right hand and my Guinness in my left and I would talk for hours with the local lads about Bryan O'Driscoll being God, Thierry Henry rotting in hell and Bono being a twat. This was pretty much spot on, except leprechauns have a feisty disposition and do not frolic.

And so I found myself on a local bus at midday on the 17th of March headed into Dublin and every bar that would have us. Our crew for the day was the flotsam of a ridiculous birthday party of our hosts brother that kicked off our stay and the effects of which were still being felt. (I managed to roll my ankle in a retarded attempt at climbing stairs and throughout the day every time I stepped in a certain way it crumpled on itself.) There were seven of us who knew each other from the Amsterdam pub crawl and had used this opportunity as a reunion of sorts. We also had at our disposal two local guides, Dave and Larry, who had neglected any sleep as a precursor for the day when everyone is Irish. The twenty or so people left at the house were still recovering from the party the night before and we would only see them later that night.

First on the agenda was to find a drink, which was not too difficult, there are more pubs in Dublin than people. We started off with a Bulmers, which is an Irish cider and a delightful way to get back on the wagon. With our whistles whet, and us sufficiently disorientated we headed to the grand attraction of the parade. We caught the parade on Dame street, a wide street in the Temple bar district and soon spotted an ideal viewing point. We scaled a truck and from that vantage point could take in the parade. There were young girls in traditional Irish dresses dancing along leading different animals on tacky floats. It took us a moment to take this in and quickly made our next assessment which was to drop this parade like it was hot and hit the next bar. The police arrived on the scene to assist us in our dismount of the truck, even giving us a hand down. Apparently there was Irish dancing on St. Stephen's Green and other traditional shenanigans but we paid little attention to that and all of it on the bar scene. I do not know what any of the many bars we went to were called but they were all crammed full of revelers and raucous, exactly what we were hoping for. We quickly established a healthy pace of barhopping with one Guinness at each the prerequisite.
Dublin on St. Paddy's day is exactly what you imagine it to be, the vibe is boisterous, the people are rowdy and clad in green, the streets are humming with performers and drinkers united in celebration of Patrick and his eviction of the snakes. That is the legend attributed to this fine day – that good old Patrick rid the island of snakes a là the Pied Piper. The people of this serpent free land have since rejoiced in this absence and the rest of the world has joined in.
We set about exploring the Temple Bar district one bar at a time taking in the vibe and a whole lotta Guinness. Each bar we visited would evoke a comment from Dave or Larry on the quality of the Guinness at that particular place. My Guinness knowledge was limited; I didn’t know that the kegs need to be stored two metres directly under the bar for optimum taste, and that each bar has a different quality of Guinness and I also didn’t know that if you drink a load of it it gives you the shits. That was not a pleasant surprise. Pretty soon the day took on a ruby green haze, with a steady flow of Guinness and a constantly funny tummy. I sang Cape Town’s praises and interrogated every local about what living in Dublin is like. The responses were varied, generally everyone loves Dublin but it does have its shortcomings. The Celtic Tiger that economically exploded in the late nineties has died a horrible death and as has the general morale of the city. Jobs are non-existent and on top of that it is one of the most expensive cities in the world. The rent on Grafton street, the pedestrian shopping street, is more than any street in New York or London. This is the reasont that I managed to burn through almost two months of earnings in less than a week. No one, however, was too bothered by all of that at that moment.
Somewhere between our fourth or fifth bars, while we were having a kebab break, a passing girl stole a prized green hat off of Dan (a fellow Amsterdam pub crawler), the livewire Australian took no time to throw his jacket on the floor in outrage and gallop after the brat. As soon as his jacket hit the floor, a nearby teenage knacker, showing good initiative, grabbed it and bolted. I faked a chase and hobbled to a nearby pole while a few in our party took up the chase immediately followed by a gang of the thief’s cronies. Soon enough everyone returned empty handed and a little bemused. This first-hand experience with Ireland’s juvenile youth was a minor speed bump but soon enough we were gathering ourselves at another bar. The blur of afternoon bars settled down in the evening when we found a guy dominating old Irish songs and classic pop songs in an intimate venue called Palace Bar (I know this because I have their coaster) . By this stage we had forgotten that inhibitions even existed and were merrily joining in on all songs with arms on the shoulders of the surrounding strangers. With our voices warmed up, we gathered ourselves with some red bulls on a street corner and headed to the club and our rendezvous with the gang. The club, Pygmalion, was on a completely different level to our entire day, playing pounding techno on the darkened dance floor with a swanky lounge upstairs to chill out in. This change of scene gave us a boost to end the day and night on a high. All in all, it was an awesome day, an epic party and the perfect excuse to visit a city whose main attraction is the charm of its people.

Flashback #1 The Rod and Reel

January 2009 -ish

If you have ever been a poor traveler or broke student you will be more than familiar with the importance of predrinking. As too with sneaking in sachets of alcohol to sporting events and clubs, hiding bottles of wine in parking lots, beers in bushes, half-jacks in jackets, and vodka bottles in handbags. Pre-drinking is key to obtaining optimum drunkeness (somewhere between a numb face and performing failed stagedives) and minimal spending. In Aspen, a ritzy town with extravagant prices pre-drinking wasn’t an option but a necessity. Enter the Rod ‘n’ Reel and the perfect answer to our then perturbment.



We were staying an hour’s bus ride from the town of Aspen, where the action, clubs and Brazilian girls were. We could drink on the bus in our gatorade bottles spiced with cheap vodka, which we did, but we stumbled upon a better solution. Aspen itself is the Monte Carlo of North American skiing. There I walked past Heidi Klum in the street (she acted casual about it), caught a lift with Hilary Swank (she too, masked her giddiness) and rubbed shoulders with other celebrities in equally abritrary ways. And while these stars were living the high life in their mansions and hotel suites we were drinking in public parks in -20 degrees celcius, changing rooms and our preferred Mcdonald’s where the Rod ‘n’Reel came to prominence. In the land of the free, unlike Africa, refills are free at fast-food outlets. This blew our minds at first. Being African and therefore losing our shit at anything vaguely free we took full advantage of this. A friend from home, Ian Greig used to build up his thirst and at the end of the day would“get his money’s worth” for a small coke continuously refilled for the two hour period he would spend there. We slowly caught onto how this could slip into our predrinking ritual - perfectly. What was perfect was that 1.75 litres of Vodka was a relative steal (despite the imminent blindness), there was an upstairs area, no security and the added bonus of a framed fishing rod and reel to add to the aesthetics. To add to the attraction, the clubs we were interested in, primarily Chelsea’s and primarily on Wednesdays Ladies’ nights, was one street away. Talk about location. With this discovery, we approached this new drinking venue with all the abundant fervour and passion that we naturally showed for intoxication.



We rendezvoused at the bottle store where we had an account under the name of ‘The Barton Boys’. This was the name of our blinding vodka and would spark obvious amazement by the staff each and every time we insisted on buying this 1.75 litres of loveliness. I think we bought 18 bottles in the month of January 2009. That’s not bad considering we barely had money for food, but lets not fuss on priorites. The excitement, like in every bottle store, was ripe and we skipped off with our loot to the oasis that is Mcdonald’s. Giggling, we each ordered one small coke and ran upstairs and set upon our business of getting wasted in public.

We were merrily making our way through our first drink in the far corner of the upstairs level when we noticed our company. Two stalls away were two large men in overalls and a young woman. After peeking at them a few times we noticed that one of the overalled men was in on this game of ours too. He was also intermiitently spicing up his 7up. We were instantly buzzing by the possibility that we had stumbled upon a secret society, a glorious underworld and decided to spark up a conversation with our apparent drinking buddy. He took no time to impress us with his drunkeness which was vastly beyond ours. He stood up and made the slightly baffling claim that he was in fact Sasquatch. It was only slightly baffling because he did look woodlandish, and had a hermit-esqueness to him. He pronounced that he was in fact Sasquatch and that we should take a picture of him to send into the tabloids if we wanted some quick money. Despite this exclamation we befriended the behemoth and even shared our drinks with him. His effect on the events dissipated when his drunkkenness overwhelmed him and a quietness presided and soon enough we were at his previous level and heading out to devastate dancefloors, steal drinks, inadvertantly insult girls and other usual shenanigans. And so the illustrious ritual of the Rod ‘n Reel was instigated.



With the succes of the first meeting, word spread of the location’s excellent proximity to the clubs, cheap mix and festive environment and the second meeting had more members with some regulars, such as Sasquatch. We were ecstatic to see him again, screaming “Sasquatch”in baffled hysterics. He too was there drinking again, as I assume he did every day.
(There were various 'Sasquatch Sightings' throughout the season. Callum claimed to have seen him walking around the Buttermilk ski slopes holding a spade and looking busy. I personally saw him two more times. One was when he impossibly snuck into this fancy party that was held at my place of work, a restaurant\bar where I dominated as security, and he stomped around helping himself to the free drinks. He was still in his overalls and I have no idea how he got in, but I certainly wasn't going to kick him out. The second and last time I saw him was in a square where there was a live band playing. He had found a seat a few meters away from the band, had the ever present spiced up gatorade bottle with him and between screams of encouragement for the band had muffled sobs and I saw him crying quietly to himself. That was a pretty sad scene but I will rather choose to remember the good times related to Sasquatch.)
The highlight of this second Rod ‘n’Reel session, as they were being referred to after the decoration of our drinking corner, was Sasquatch taking off his overall and pants. I cannot recall why but I do recall that it did happen, all the way down to his underpants, to his delight and our shock. Before long we were having farewell parties at The Rod, and were getting too rowdy for the exasperated staff who were threatening us with calling police. To be fair, we were too brave for our own good, taking no effort to hide our innebriation, our cackling increasing with every visit on our way to refill our ‘small cokes’,spilling our drinks and laughing about it, leaving the place a shambles and being allround drunkards. And in an instant we were all banned from Mcdonald’s, which made that Jeff’s third place in Aspen to be banned from.

It didn’t last for long, but the prime of the Rod ‘n’Reel was sublime, a certain ‘beating of the system’, and allowed us to remember very little of those nights that started with a bottle of 1.75 litre Barton, a small coke and Sasquatch taking off his pants.